Third
by Lotessele
Summary: A moment of creation between Aragorn and Arwen. Sweet, but should keep you warm during winter nights.


Disclaimer: I don't possess the Ring, nor the Lord – whoever it is.

I'm French. Lady Lavender-Moon did what she could.

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><p>Arwen entered quietly the nuptial rooms, one of the most secret places of Minas Tirith. After heated discussions with stewards, heads of guards and advisors, they had managed to reduce the number of obtrusive guards who came running with naked blades every time one of them sneezed. Now the doors were watched by trusted men, skilled in war and tact, helped by a number of big dogs which would let the Halflings play with them, but would also disembowel any intruder in the blink of an eye.<p>

She had been at an administration meeting and came home late. Aragorn had been on a mission outside the gates, on the East border of their world, coming back the same evening. She had not been able to see him or any of the men, but knew their mission had gone well, or as well as it could have with _Yrchs_ wandering from the borders of Mordor to hamlets of Rhûn.

The 34th king of Gondor had been a Ranger, never fixed in one place, for the better part of his life. While a king by birth right, he constructed himself as a nomad, looking after and protecting from outside. Becoming a king was another life, for he was already an old man by men's standard, and no rational entity expected him to eradicate his previous personality. He spent most of his months in the city, but would also ride to places where a king, moreover a warrior, as he still felt more at ease in the latter's skin than in the former's, was needed.

She had been happy to become a Queen, reigning over their new land as a true spouse and partner of the King. She was daughter of a Lord and had been educated as such, extensively for a maiden. She was grateful for the hours spent over parchment and listening to elders when she was able to work hand in hand with her husband and Faramir, helping them in this new Age, in a world to be reconstructed. When King Elessar was out of Minas Tirith – or absorbed in other tasks – she was his natural substitute.

He had been away for five weeks, the longest they had been parted since their wedding. He had waited for her but exhaustion had won, and he was asleep in their bed, lying half on his side. He fought against tiredness, judging by the book still held open in lax fingers. She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him, taking in, over and over, the high cheekbones, the dark brown hair still slightly damp and wavy, the high forehead, the straight eyes, the stubble on his jaw and sunken cheeks. He seemed younger in his sleep, peaceful, without nightmares or concern. It was good to see him like this. However, she knew he wouldn't like to wake up in the morning and find that she had slipped in bed like a thief.

"My king," she whispered, stroking his cheek. He stirred and his eyes opened.

"Hey." He blinked, still half asleep. "Good evening."

"Good to have you back. Did it go well?"

He nodded, but she noticed the bandage on his bare shoulder and the sheer exhaustion, when he didn't even try to lift his head. She pushed him gently, indicating that he scoot over, and slipped under the sheets, in her nightgown. The summer night was warm and both had taken to wearing only necessary clothes under the light cotton sheet.

"Did Tulcadàn object the idea of weekly patrols?"

Her husband had to restrain an eye-roll and she grinned. Tulcadàn was the seneschal of Rhûn, appointed by the Gondor crown to re-organize the Easterlings' lands. Named in the elven fashion by a literate father, he used a good part of his energy to live up to his etymology and was one the most pig-headed men Aragorn had ever known. But he had definite skills in administration and was fluent in all languages needed.

"How did things go here?" he asked, leaving the Rhûn subject for later.

She smiled. "Fairly normal. We are waiting for rain, the air is getting more damp every day." Of course, there was other news, but now was not the place or especially the time for it. Their work was now lighter than it had been in their first months of reign, but they still had precious little time as just husband and wife, and she wanted them to enjoy it. He probably had the same idea, as he pushed himself up onto his elbows to met her lips in a kiss.

"Missed you."

"Did you?"

His eyes were laughing. She feigned outrage and went to straddle his hips. His hands went on her waist. She noticed he was moving his right arm with difficulty. She put a light hand on his shoulder, just above the bandage. He didn't move; as uncooperative he could be with the healers, she was one of the few people he allowed himself to show weakness to when he was hurt. She didn't have her father's gift of healing, but her touch always relaxed him. Or did something else, depending on their mood.

Right now, it seemed he was in the same mood as her.

He spread his fingers on her waist, looking straight in her eyes. Neither of them would break the contact for the next few minutes. All words in their clear eyes, hardly any needing to be spoken aloud. In the first weeks, they had been cautious together, not feeling completely at ease in their respective roles. So, from him, silence as a reflex inherited by years of stealth; from her, reserve for the only male, human or elf, she knew intimately. After a year, it seemed they had always been together, which, knowing an elven life span, was saying something.

As caresses were getting at the same time more precise and more erratic (though both were getting quickly past the point of thinking), Aragorn tried to sat up, but the muscles in his back cramped and flatly refused to obey. He fell back with a groan.

"I feel like an old man," he complained. She wondered fleetly what had happened, but worked quickly to distract him. "I believe I know a few things this old man would like."

He didn't answer, but the anticipation in his eyes told her she had made her point. There was something she had talked about with Eowyn (her friend was less shy than she was, in all things on Arda) that she wanted to try, but didn't had the occasion until now. Tonight he was at her mercy.

Stopping their kisses only for breathing (and sometimes not), still straddling his hips, she deftly undid the clasps of her nightgown, the belt of his cotton pants. They always made love face to face; lying down, on their side, sitting on his lap, but this was new and she rejoiced in the possibility of controlling everything. From his reactions, as he probably understood what she was doing, he didn't object. He always trusted her, in their work, in his sleep, as if their souls were connected, as if they had lived hundreds of years together.

When she came onto him, he threw his head back and emitted a long moan. She smiled, surprised but delighted, and let herself be absorbed in their slow love dance, kissing his tanned skin while he stroked her fair counterpart.

For elves, physical intimacy was only a part of marital life. One could think that a close-to-infinity lifespan could push a species towards debauchery, but elves were contrarily a demonstration of self-restraint and gravity. They used a lot of their time for arts and history, war and politics. From their immortality, they scarcely had more than a few children. Physical love was a sacred pleasure between spouses, but not the reason behind a relationship.

When she fell in love with Aragorn, at their second meeting, when the gangly young man had become a seasoned warrior and leader of men, she had known she would see him grow old, wither and die, leaving her alone with memories. Thus were their entwined fates. However, like the first Tinúviel, she couldn't imagine her life without this Man. They were bound by love, by choice, by soul and body.

Human lives were shorter, but more intense. They had no other choice, as they had little time: compared to elves, their lives were but longer than a butterfly's flying from one flower to another. But the nectar they would collect in passing was richer, sometimes sweeter, sometimes more bitter. They were more subject to the whims of Arda, and some would get only the bitter parts, while some would benefit for a full life (in their eyes: in the eyes of elves, even a successful warrior, retired after triumphs, married and father, passing peacefully of old age, would represent less than a blade of grass).

Passing from a word to another, she learned to live in a similarly intense way, and after a few weeks, things had begun to get more natural. Her loving husband was a great help, as were his human and hobbit friends (hobbits certainly knew how to enjoy each day as if it were the last). To discuss this lifestyle change, or… other activities, their bedroom had been the perfect learning place.

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><p>Later, as they were slowly returning to separate entities, Arwen curled on her side, lying her hand on Aragorn's chest. He was already dozing; his eyes fluttered though he didn't wake. Falling asleep alongside him, something told her to press her palm on his wound. She felt warmth and a quiet tiredness; he sighed blissfully and burrowed deeper in sleep.<p>

Deep within her, a small part of him had found shelter and was creating a third.

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><p><em>Reviews are love. Let me know what you think. I've got hot chocolate and raspberry cake here. <em>

_Now that Eldarion officially exists, I'm working on his own stories._


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